


I'll Make You Smile Again

by ORiley42



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Groundhog Day (1993) Fusion, Angst, Benji is stuck in a time loop, Friendship, Happy Ending, M/M, Manipulation, Romance, Trust, oblique references to suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25925809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ORiley42/pseuds/ORiley42
Summary: Benji had thought about how cool it would be to live in a movie--Groundhog Day is not the movie he would choose.AKA, Benji is stuck in a time loop.
Relationships: Benji Dunn/Ethan Hunt
Comments: 16
Kudos: 67
Collections: Benthan Week 2020





	I'll Make You Smile Again

**Author's Note:**

> A few days late, but no matter! Time isn’t real anymore, and it’s especially not real for a time-loop fic.  
> I LOVE the ’93 Groundhog Day movie, I have seen it like a dozen times, and it makes me laugh every time. Although it’s got some sexist and weird nonsense, there’s also just some utter hilarity (letting the groundhog drive…asking the cop if it’s too early for flapjacks…it’s Classic). And, being a classic, I feel it’s something Benji would have seen and known, so there’s lots of refs to it throughout the fic!  
> I’m so happy Benthan Week finally gave me an excuse to write a time-loop fic, because it’s incredible that I haven’t used this premise already considering above-stated adoration for the film.  
> Hope y’all enjoy!  
> (And yes, the repeated day is a Tuesday, because I am ultimately a sucker for a Supernatural reference as well.)  
> (also, the title is a line from “Weatherman” by Delbert McClinton from the Groundhog Day soundtrack, of course)

_Tuesday, September 27 th, #359. The final time._

“I’m sure I’ve asked you this before, but…are you sure?” Ethan’s eyes were clear of doubt, all they reflected was Benji’s own pain and loss and fractured certitude.

“You have asked me that question. Many times, and in different circumstances. But this time is different.” Benji smiled, the tears he’d given up on so many repetitions ago gathering in his eyes. “This time I’m not sure. Not at all. I cannot tell you, with any certainty, what will happen next.”

“How does that feel?”

“Incredible.” Benji leaned in and pressed a tender, lingering kiss to Ethan’s cheek.

Ethan laughed, surprised. “What was that for?”

Benji caressed the place his lips had alighted with the backs of his fingers. “Just saying goodbye to the one good thing about this nightmare.”

“What’s that?”

“Knowing that every morning when I wake, you’ll be there.”

“Benji, I—”

“Hush,” Benji tapped Ethan’s lips once, “I know.” He glanced down at the refurbished nuclear device. He’d tinkered with it so many times now, its insides were as familiar as those of the ancient television set he’d disassembled and reassembled as a curious child.

“Would you care to do the honors?” he asked Ethan, “you do have a knack for pressing buttons. Seems to lend the operation a bit of luck.”

“Together,” Ethan decided, firm. He laid a hand over the button—big and red, because why deprive the moment of drama?—and Benji laid his hand over the lot.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Benji promised, and pressed down.

_Tuesday, September 27 th. The first time. _

Benji raced up the stairs, focused on the most immediate objective (get up the damn stairs without tripping) in order to complete the larger objective (stop Lane from setting off the nuclear device).

In Wisconsin, of all places.

Objective one was finally complete, but objective two stood no chance with what he saw at his feet: Ethan, unconscious. Or dead? No, he couldn’t be. Benji brushed the thought aside before it could take root.

But there was no time to check, no time at all, Lane was insane and determined and if Ethan was down, then who would be left to stop him—Benji? Christ on a cracker, he hoped Ilsa was around here somewhere with a gun or a knife or a damn cricket bat, he didn’t care, just so long as it wasn’t up to _him_ …

Lane was standing at the windows, hands clasped behind his back. “Ah,” he peered over his shoulder at Benji, “it’s you. Come to see the show?”

“No—” Benji had a gun and he knew how to use it, even if he didn’t want to. But he didn’t get the chance. He saw the glowing red countdown on the device click over to 00:00. It was over long before Benji—if he hadn’t been vaporized—could’ve processed the flash of white.

_Tuesday, September 27 th, 2.0 _

Benji woke up in the back of a van. This was the second day in a row he’d done so. The first time had been yesterday, driving to some medium-small city in one of the middle US states that Benji could never quite keep track of. That had been fine, because it was a van driven by his teammates, and he was meant to be taking a kip in the back—it had been a long and draining journey chasing Lane around the world, after all.

But today, he had not expected to wake up in a van. In fact, he hadn’t exactly expected to wake up at all—not after facing nuclear annihilation, up close and personal.

“We’re almost there,” Ethan announced, clambering into the back of the vehicle. Benji watched him with undisguised astonishment. How could this be…?

“Hey, you ready to go?” Ethan asked, crouching down next to where Benji was still half sprawled out. It wasn’t an aggressive or accusatory question, just a straightforward one, meant to be answered honestly. Benji didn’t think he could manage that, however.

“Fine,” he managed to choke out, “But. If I’m here, and you’re here, then who’s flying the plane?” The joke fell as flat as it had yesterday—or today?—except that Ethan still paid him that same sweet smile.

“Ilsa’s at the wheel, and trust me, Luther’s all the backseat driver she needs. She’ll get us there in time, you just need to be ready to do your part.”

“My part,” Benji repeated, “my part of…?”

“Very funny,” Ethan squeezed Benji’s shoulder before flipping open a heavy black metal briefcase and beginning to assemble a small, precise handgun.

“Right. So. Defusing the bomb. Again…” Benji said, head swimming.

“Again?” Ethan raised a brow at him, “you defuse nuclear devices often?”

“Ha…” Benji laughed weakly, “more often than you’d think.” Twice in two days, he thought to himself.

Except—

Benji jumped to his feet, not a smart move in a moving car. He almost fell on his face except for the grace of Ethan’s quick reflexes. Ethan held him up, held him _close_ , chest to chest.

“Whoa there,” Ethan smiled down at him, and Benji wished he could live in this moment. But he couldn’t.

“Lane’s already in the city,” he said in a rush, “More than that, he practically has his finger on the button.”

“What?” Ethan’s smile slipped, cracked.

“We thought we’d be intercepting him en route, but we don’t, there’s no safeties, no code to crack no—no none of it! We don’t have time for surveillance, we don’t have time to hack their comms.”

“Slow down, Benji, where are you getting this?”

“I—” What was Benji supposed to say? Intuition? Premonition? Hallucination?

“Benji, what are you talking about,” Ethan repeated, his gentle hold on Benji turning firm, just short of bruising.

“Ethan…” Benji tried, but there was no explaining it. “Ethan, I just need you to trust me.”

“We’re talking about a nuclear blast, Benji. Tens of thousands of lives, maybe more—maybe the whole world at war, if Lane gets his way.”

“I know,” Benji nodded, “I know. But I still need you to believe me when I say we need to go in hard, _now_ , at the Plaza location.”

“That intel’s from the Widow, we can’t just act on it without confirmation—”

“I’m confirming it, Ethan,” Benji was begging now, he needed Ethan to believe him, he couldn’t stand to think about what he’d seen happen already, what would happen again. “Please, if you’ve ever trusted me before, trust me now—I give you my word, on my life, my mother’s life, _your_ life, all the lives that are holy to me. I am telling you the truth, this is the only way.”

Ethan pulled Benji closer, searching his eyes. If the circumstances had been different, Benji might’ve thought a kiss was on the horizon. But this was not a climate where such soft things could survive.

“Okay.” Ethan’s eyes were cool, the green-blue frozen over.

“Okay?” Benji echoed.

“I trust you, Benji,” Ethan said, and Benji could see shapes in the water beneath the frost, but he hadn’t been granted access yet. “Your word is enough for me.”

And that was it.

They went in, hard and fast. The gray morning was teetering on the edge of frozen, molecules of water hanging in the air between mist and rain. They dashed across the road, making a sky blue Prius slam its brakes. A little girl with pink ribbons in her braids was sobbing by the curb outside the building, her father trying to console her and having little luck. A taco truck was bravely setting up shop in the protective shadow of the concrete behemoth across the street. So much life, going forward without any clue what was coming.

What Benji, and Ethan, and their team were going to stop.

And they did stop it.

It was close. Ilsa had a deep cut in her arm and Benji had taken a blow to the skull that kept making his vision swim in and out, but Ethan had taken Lane down and Luther had cut the right wire. They were safe.

Lane lifted his head from where he lay trussed like poultry on the ground and brought it cracking down on the concrete, once, twice, over and over again. A drum of hatred and fury. Luther, ever practical, stepped forward and tased Lane into unconsciousness.

“Thank you,” Ethan said, gratefully.

Luther nodded and touched the brim of his hat.

“That’s it!” Benji could’ve cried. “It’s over!”

“It is,” Ethan agreed quietly, “you were right.” Benji wanted to throw his arms around him, but there was something too delicate in Ethan’s expression to disrupt.

It looked like…mistrust. Benji knew it would take time to explain, to mend whatever had happened here—Ethan had trusted him, but that trust was shaken. Benji realized, in a flash of inspiration, that his sudden knowledge might seem like a sign of being a traitor. How could he have known all he did unless…unless he’d been on the inside?

But it was alright. He could tell Ethan the whole story. And Benji consoled himself with the fact that Ethan was here—he was fine, unlike…well. It didn’t matter. They were all here, and surely now that the explosion had been averted, whatever thing had happened to Benji wouldn’t happen again.

He grinned, dopey with relief, at his assembled teammates, and decided to chalk the day up to the weirdest and most tactically useful day of déjà vu ever.

_Tuesday, September 27 th, Third time’s the charm?_

The van. Again.

Alright. Benji sat up, tallying the options. Head injury, maybe. Elaborate Truman-show-like ploy to convince him to spill state secrets, slightly less likely.

No, the only thing that could really explain the entirety of what was happening—other than good old fashioned insanity—was that he was stuck in a time loop. Like _Groundhog Day_. Or that one episode of Buffy. Or The X-Files. Or of Next Gen. Or—

Ok, this was fine, no worries, at least three of his favorite TV shows had dealt with this. Surely, he could deal with it too.

He reached quietly for his computer. It confirmed the date: Tuesday, September 27th. Still. This was the third time.

Benji really wanted to freak out about whatever the hell was happening to him, but if this godforsaken day was starting over, then they were once again all facing immanent death and he had no time for a mental breakdown.

He didn’t want to lie, but they’d cut it so close yesterday—

“Contact from HQ,” Benji waved his tablet to try and get the attention of the van’s occupants, praying no one asked to see the communique, “they’re confirming the Widow’s Plaza location. One of Lane’s men turned, he got scared shitless by the whole possibility of impending nuclear apocalypse thing. Says they’re already set up on the seventh floor, and Lane’s got an itchy trigger finger.”

“What?” Ethan’s brow was a dark, worried line, his eyes hidden in the dim light of the van, “we were supposed to beat them here. Their flight log said—”

“It was wrong,” Benji interrupted. Ethan’s mouth fell open, just a bit, at the bold tone. “We were wrong,” Benji continued, softer, “and we have to move on this now or it’ll be too late.”

A beat for contemplation, the rumble of tire and road. “Alright,” Ethan clapped a hand to his thigh, going to the weapons crate. “We move on the Plaza.”

As they drove onward, Benji quickly rattled off what he knew in his head. 1) This had all started that first time, when they’d…when they’d been too late. 2) It had kept going when they’d stopped the bomb, yesterday. 3) What other options did that leave?

He didn’t know.

They ran into the building, just as they had before. Except, not exactly as before.

A flash of a woman dressed all in blue. Benji remembered seeing her, restrained with Lane’s handful of cronies, the last time they’d done this.

But they’d gotten there sooner now, minutes saved with Benji’s explanation of his intel via the phony confirmation. As bad luck would have it, she clearly spotted them well before they spotted her.

She got three shots off before Luther put her down. It was too late for Ilsa.

They nearly made the seventh floor, but without cover himself and now busy trying to cover his friends, Ethan took a bullet in the shoulder.

Benji got one in the brain. Or at least, he was pretty sure that was what happened—much like in his first go-around, it all just went black.

_Tuesday, September 27 th, 4th iteration_

Benji watched for the woman in blue. He dropped her with a single shot.

“Nicely done,” Ilsa complimented him from where she was covering Ethan.

Benji didn’t respond. He just watched everything, absorbing it, slotting it into place in his memory for when he’d need it again—because it seemed that he would need it again. And again, and again.

After Lane and the rest of his people had been secured, Benji joined Luther as he ensured the bomb couldn’t detonate. He pestered Luther with questions until Luther boomed, “What, is there gonna be a test later? Gimme some space.”

Benji gave him some space, but not so much that he wasn’t able to track the detonator’s local frequency and scribble down the un-scrambled encryption sequence.

_Tuesday, September 27 th, version #8_

It was still a shock, waking up in that van, even after more than a week. Though he thought he could sense the edge of that emotion wearing down—or maybe not the edge, just the length. That first moment was still a total body/mind reset. The second moment, however, all his memories of the days “before” flooded into his brain and washed away the neurotransmitters of fear and flight and increasingly replaced them with a listless exhaustion.

He didn’t know if he slept between circuits, between the days. Was his mind getting tired even though his body was as it had always been? Was it just psychological? Was there even a meaningful divide between the physical and the mental anymore?

“Let me out,” Benji banged on the divide protecting the driver’s side.

“What?” Ilsa frowned back at him, Luther and Ethan turning matching expressions in his direction.

“I’ve got to be stationary to monitor the signal,” Benji lied, “Let me out, I’ll do my tech part, you go on and handle the punch-y, shoot-y stuff.”

“That’s not the plan—” Ethan tried to protest.

“I know, but plans change.” A heartbeat of hesitation. “Trust me,” Benji said.

Ethan paused, then agreed. “Alright.” Ilsa followed his lead and pulled the van over. Benji tried not to throw up at the rampant abuse of the trust he held so dear. No good losing your lunch over that, Benji boy, he tried to counsel himself, plenty worse to come.

Benji hopped out with his tablet. “Good luck,” he shouted over the engine, catching a glimpse of Ethan’s grave nod before the van door slammed shut and they were gone.

Benji didn’t go far, just found the nearest bench and sat down. He thought he could disarm the bomb remotely after a few trial runs at close range, but he wanted to be sure. Best to let his team do their thing (as ill-fated as it was) while he tried to do his.

It worked. A few lines of code were all it took with his, hmm, “insider knowledge” might be the right term. It was almost too easy.

Benji sat on the bench. It turned out to be the bench folks waited on to catch the 10-line to campus. He watched sun-blonde undergrads and purple-buzzcut grads stand slumped under the threat of rain as they waited. Some gave him curious looks as bus after bus arrived and he remained seated.

He didn’t have anywhere to go.

“You did it, didn’t you,” a voice asked from behind him. Unless one of the college kids was accusing him of murder or something out of the blue, that had to be Ethan.

Benji turned around to find Ethan, leather jacket and hair rustling in the wind—the whole package—standing behind him. The bus stop was deserted.

“Er, if you mean, did I disarm the bomb? Yep!” Benji shot Ethan a thumbs up, “If you mean, did I assassinate JFK or eat the last of the peanut butter in the break room, then I plead innocent.”

Ethan didn’t laugh. “You saved all our lives, but you couldn’t be bothered to get on the comms. Let us know?”

“Ah,” Benji pursed his lips, “Right. Guess that would’ve made sense.” He genuinely hadn’t thought of it. All that really mattered was saving them, and increasingly, that didn’t seem to matter either. One way or another, this day would just keep happening.

“Whatever’s happening with you,” Ethan said, casual and light as he vaulted over the bench to sit beside Benji (so dramatic…Benji adored it), “you know you can tell me about it.”

“Hmm,” Benji turned to look at him, lightbulb nearly visible above his head with the force of the idea, “I can, can’t I?”

“Um…” Ethan frowned, but there was a note of playfulness to it, “that is what I just said.”

“Alright. Let’s…let’s play a game.”

“Ok.”

“Ok,” Benji resettled on the bench, feeling more himself than he had in days, “let’s pretend that you’re stuck inside a movie.”

“Not _Jumanji_ ,” Ethan paled.

“No, not—what, is that some sort of phobia on your part?”

“Maybe,” Ethan said shiftily.

“Right. Actually, that’s useful, so, noted. Anyway, the movie you’re stuck in is _Groundhog Day_.”

“Hmm. Don’t think I saw that one. Is it about…hogs?”

“Groundhogs aren’t pigs, they’re rodents! Never mind, that’s not relevant,” Benji dragged a hand down his face, “So, the big plot thing is that the main character is stuck in a time-loop. He’s living the same day over and over again.”

“Yikes.”

“The biggest yikes,” Benji agreed fervently, “but the movie actually offers some pretty practical tips. Y’know, like, how to get people to believe that you’re stuck in a time loop.”

Ethan narrowed his eyes. “Benji, you know I trust you—and maybe more important than that, I really care about you—but if you’re going to say…”

“Yeah, no, of course not,” Benji shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut, “that’s why I said this is a game. The point of the game is this: if you had to convince someone that you knew them, that you’d had conversations with them that they didn’t remember, to get them to trust you instantly…what would you say? I mean, the Bill Murray route was mostly to acquire massive amounts of intimate information just to get with the attractive leading lady but—irrelevant. The goal of our game is to determine what that single thing would be for you.”

“Well. It would have to be something basically no one else knows.”

“Right.”

“Something really, really dark.”

“I guess,” Benji winced, “or just…personal.”

“Oh,” Ethan’s eyes widened with a memory, “I just…hmm. No, that’s too embarrassing.”

“Too embarrassing is the perfect amount of embarrassing!” Benji insisted.

“Please, no,” Ethan covered his face, “seriously, has this whole thing just been a ruse to get me to spill about my nightmarish first year of college?”

“College-Ethan!” Benji crowed, “Yes, that’s exactly right. All a ruse, not a real thing. So. Dish.”

“I will, if!” Ethan held up a stern finger about an inch from Benji’s nose, “If you swear on your life that this will never go past us.”

“I swear,” Benji said, swatting away a touch of guilt that a promise made on his own life didn’t mean all that much these days.

“Okay. So. For a while, I had this nickname…” Ethan sighed deeply, before confessing, “the Great and Terrible Gorilla Butcher of the Concrete Basement.”

_Tuesday, September 27 th, version #17_

Benji hopped up on top of the bomb. Just sat down on it. His teammates all let out various noises of distress and he waved them away.

“What? It’s the closest seat. Totally safe.” He gave the casing a solid knock for good measure. “See? Defused, 100%.” Strangely, this did not calm his comrades.

“Anyway,” he mused, tapping his chin, “One thing I still don’t understand after all this time is why Lane chose this place. Why this city? Is it the school? Is it the innocent Midwestern-ness of it all? Does he just really despise cheese?”

“Benji…” Ethan looked closer to having a stroke now than he had with bullets whizzing by (Benji had opted for the more action-packed version of bomb-defusal that morning), “I was born here.”

Benji stared at Ethan. “Oh! Well. Duh,” he broke into laughter. “Right! That makes sense. I mean, he did really start flipping out about you, personally. Hmm…” he turned thoughtful again. “But we should be sure. I’ll ask Lane.”

Lane, where he was lying prone and bruised on the ground, didn’t even flinch at his name.

“Yeah, I don’t think he’s gonna be telling you anything,” Luther pointed out.

“He will,” Benji said, frightening in his cool confidence, “someday. When I get around to it. Today, however!” Benji jumped back off the bomb, to a collective sigh of relief. “I have a piano lesson. See you tomorrow!” He waved goodbye, politely ignoring their shocked faces.

_Tuesday, September 27 th, version #34_

“You murdered that innocent gorilla-shaped inflatable chair,” Benji accused Ethan as Ilsa and Luther secured Lane in the back of the van Benji had grown to despise.

“I…what?” Ethan blinked.

“You know what you did,” Benji growled, doing his best noir-cop impression.

Ethan grabbed him by the shirtfront and dragged him into the nearby alley, and whoa, Benji kinda liked how this version of events was going. Alas, Ethan did not slam him homoerotically against the bricks, just let him go and demanded to know how Benji knew what he did.

Benji explained. Ethan did not believe. Benji explained more, and then Ethan had little choice but to believe.

Still in the mood to harp on the gorilla incident, Benji continued, “A beautiful—one may even say tragically beautiful—one-of-a-kind novelty bit of furniture. Sitting there doing no harm, providing endless joy to the theater kids as they mucked around that grungy basement level...”

“It was horrible and it _smelled_ and it was a safety risk!” Ethan insisted.

“You say that, and yet, you’re still riddled with guilt. And a healthy dose of embarrassment that you managed to make yourself an outsider among the folks who most campus-goers gave the widest of berths.”

“It’s not like it was a _real_ gorilla,” Ethan moaned, “I just punctured it a little!”

“With a stapler. Repeatedly.” Benji tsked.

“I cannot believe I told you that. Of—”

“—all the things!” Benji took over Ethan’s speech, the words and their variations well-memorized by this point. “Why didn’t I tell you something dark and noble?” Benji continued in a passable imitation of Ethan’s voice. He stopped just before the point where Ethan’s expression of amusement shifted past concerned and into scared. He really did hate seeing Ethan scared.

“But seriously, gorillas aside,” Ethan shuddered a little, “this…this time loop. How does it work?”

Benji took a deep breath, paging through the versions of explanations he could employ. “It’s _Groundhog Day_. I know you’ve never seen it, and no, it has nothing to do with hogs. Or even groundhogs, really, which are rodents, by the way. The point of the movie is that the main guy is stuck living the same day over and over, while no one else around him is aware.”

“You just…wake up in the same place, the same time, every morning?”

“Yes.”

“But…why?”

“Well, in terms of plot explanation, I’ve got about as much as ol’ Phil did—which is to say, nothing. But if we’re talking, like, in terms of ‘significance’? The big ‘why’ that we all ask? Still nothing. Because the point of the movie is that Phil has to undergo moral character growth. Or. Something. But, I’m not an egocentric news anchor who uses women and abuses his colleagues!”

“You’re really not,” Ethan confirmed, kindly.

“And it’s not about stopping the bomb. That wrong’s been righted dozens of times.”

“Maybe it’s a different wrong needing righting,” Ethan wondered aloud.

“Oh yeah? Am I meant to tackle climate change, fascism, the seriously over-priced donut cart two blocks over that fleeces students mercilessly?”

Ethan looked at Benji, his expression markedly different than it usually was when Benji did the reveal. “I’m just thinking…if I told you things that I never told anyone before, then…then you know everything.”

Benji shrugged. “Well, one of the many lessons I learned from my own personal filmic _I Ching_ is that I don’t know everything. I’m not a god. Well, probably not. Unless I’m like the rain god from _Hitchhiker’s Guide_ who doesn’t know he’s a god of precipitation and just thinks he’s cursed to get doused every damned day…which, actually, seems kind of accurate.” Benji shook his head to get back on track. “But anyway, from the perspective of someone who’s only lived this day once, I do know a hell of a lot.”

“Oh, really.” Ethan took a step forward, bringing to life that pressed-against-the-alley-bricks fantasy Benji had been entertaining a few minutes earlier.

“I don’t think you do know,” Ethan asserted, breath hot against Benji’s mouth. Benji felt a bit faint.

“Know what?” Benji whispered.

Ethan grinned. “Hey, I’m not gonna spoil it. Think of it as something to look forward to.”

Benji could’ve crumbled at that. “Something to look forward to,” he repeated, almost reverent. “Yeah, that’s something I can work with.”

_Tuesday, September 27 th, version #51_

“I’m quite grateful,” Benji announced to Ethan, watching the sunset on the terrace overlooking the lake. It was the only time that day where the clouds parted. They had a pitcher of beer and a basket of cheese curds between them, and it was worth the grease on one’s fingers to see how that deep-fried slice of home made Ethan smile. “You know, thinking of the bit in _Groundhog Day_ when Bill Murray goes up on the clock tower and, well, you know....” Benji made a whistling noise and moved a foreboding finger downwards. “I’m awfully grateful that I don’t have to deal with the possibility. Of. Well. Since I’ve been blown up and shot, it’s clear that my own mortality doesn’t figure into the situation.

And if I’m not the point of this whole thing, then why am I the only one who remembers? If it’s not about the bomb, and not about my character growth, then what the hell’s the point? Unless this is a souped-up Sleeping Beauty deal, then I’m stumped.” Benji threw up his hands, then decided more beer was the correct use of those hands.

“If this is Sleeping Beauty, then maybe you need a prince,” Ethan half-joked, “True love’s a hell of a cure-all in fairy tales.”

“I’m not in a fairy tale,” Benji grumbled, “Unless we’re talking in-the-original-German brothers Grimm, then, maybe.”

“Right. I mean, have you…have you tried, then?”

“What, kissing frogs?” He would try it if he thought it would help. Frogs weren’t that bad. He’d probably feel worse about violating the frog’s personal space than anything.

“I was thinking more about you kissing me.”

Benji had gotten extremely good at controlling his facial expressions. That said, he probably looked like he’d been electrocuted in that moment. “You…oh.” He tracked through the whole mental rolodex of their past conversations, pulling out cards and looking at them with new eyes. “Oh, I’m an _idiot_. That’s what you meant.”

“What I meant, when? Oh….” Realization dawned, and it was Ethan’s turn to hide his face in his glass.

“Yeah.”

Ethan slammed his beer down a touch violently. “I really hate not knowing if we’ve had these conversations before.”

“It’s worse knowing. But,” Benji reached out to take Ethan’s hand—what would’ve seemed terribly bold before the time loop felt downright tame now, “that doesn’t mean I’m not glad to know…that. Your feelings.”

“I don’t think you don’t know them all,” Ethan said confidently, pulling Benji’s hand to his chest, “And I think I’ll keep it that way. It’s a surprise, for when you get out of this.”

“You think I will?”

“I know you will,” Ethan kissed Benji’s knuckles, and wow, this was definitely new. And new was so, so good. “You’re one of the smartest people I know, and you’re surrounded by the other smartest and most talented people I know. You can do this. You’re not alone.”

Ethan was right. Benji wasn’t alone.

He snapped his fingers, expression morphing from infatuated to appraising. “OK, then. What’s the deepest, darkest secret you know about Ilsa?”

_Tuesday, September 27 th, version #66_

There was a hatchet-throwing ring and improvisational theater studio near campus, because, of course there was. Although Ethan had naturally excelled at the sport of chucking sharp objects with deadly precision, the effect of hatchet-throwing Benji most came to appreciate was the loosening of Ilsa’s lips. Specifically, the combination of having dangerous objects on her person and letting off a little steam meant Ilsa actually relaxed enough to talk to Benji about non-mission-related things. Personal things, even. He learned about where she’d grown up, about her older brother, about her childhood dream to become a ballerina or an astronaut or an astronaut who did ballet in space.

This gentle route of persuasion worked far better than when he’d opened with “Moscow, 2011, at the Mayak Hotel.” Benji had made the mistake of dropping this key phrase when he was alone with Ilsa, and she hadn’t hesitated in punching him in the throat and spending the next hour doing everything in her considerable power to make him confess as to how he knew such a closely-guarded secret of her time working under Lane.

Benji far preferred the practice wall getting hatchet-ed than his face. However, he did successfully modify his mistaken opening gambit, parlaying it into several highly instructive sessions with Ilsa in forcible persuasion.

_Tuesday, September 27 th, version #84_

“It’s hardly Birdland, but it’s the best you’ll find in the middle of cheese-territory,” Benji promised Luther. He dragged his recalcitrant colleague to the half-basement level of the student center, where a surprisingly well-tuned piano sat neglected in a dusty corner. Theater kids, goths, musicians, and the occasional random journalism major crowded the empty stage and smattering of tables later in the day, but the sun hadn’t been up nearly long enough for any of them to show (well, except the proto-journalists—disgustingly peppy at all hours, they were).

Benji pulled the piano bench out and sat down. Luther crossed his arms and fixed him with a glare. Benji turned away from him and back to the piano and grinned. He liked this part.

Benji played a distinctive handful of notes, shooting Luther a sly grin over his shoulder. He continued the riff, watching as Luther’s practiced gruff exterior wore away with the glow of hearing something he loved.

“You listen to Art Blakey?” Luther finally asked, not hiding his astonishment.

“And all his Jazz Messengers,” Benji confirmed, fingers flashing a little faster over the keys. “I know I’m no Bobby Timmons, but I do my best.”

“Huh,” Luther pulled up a chair. “Well I’ll be damned. I had no idea you tickled the ivories, Benji,” Luther smiled, tapping his thigh in rhythm with the music, “I’d have respected you a hell of a lot more if I’d known.”

Benji mouthed Luther’s words as he said them. They still got a kick out of him—classic Luther.

“I used to stick to classical, since that’s what my teacher taught me growing up,” Benji admitted, “Jazz is a recent addition to my oeuvre.”

“Hrmph,” was all Luther said to that, letting Benji continue the piece. Luther broke the silence a few minutes later. Benji knew when it was coming and paused mid-chord in wait.

“You seem different today,” Luther said into the sudden quiet.

“Do I?” Benji asked, breezy, starting up the song again.

“Yeah. More confident, for one thing. Not at all nervous about the mission—very odd for you.”

“Can’t cowards change?” Benji prompted, more accusatory than he’d bothered to be in past days.

“I never said that,” Luther shot a firm point in Benji’s direction, “but you were still green, at least compared to me and Ethan. It’s like you woke up older or something.”

Benji’s fingers clanged hard on the keys, producing an awful sound that probably had Blakey, Basie, Ellington, and all the rest all turning in their graves.

“Sorry,” he tried to brush it off, shaking his hands out and picking up the notes again. “That’s just, uh, more perceptive than usual.”

“Than _usual_?” Luther bristled.

“Sorry, again, that came out wrong. Just, uh, forget it. How about a little Thelonius Monk, perhaps?” Benji started in on “Straight, No Chaser.” Luther sat back in his seat, the silence stony once more.

No matter, Benji would just do it right tomorrow. Go back to the vague reply that made Luther let go of the differences he saw in Benji and open up to other routes of conversation—the talented musician that was his father, the woman Luther had almost married in the nineties, the nieces and nephews he wished he could dote on but who barely knew his face.

Now, Luther was upset. But that would go away tomorrow. And that’s how Benji’d taken to seeing things. Permanent impermanence. But what did that mean? Didn’t feelings matter, even if they were short-lived? He’d decided that lives did, it’s why he still defused that stupid bomb every single damn morning. Or was that just because it was so dull to live the—albeit, much shorter—day without his friends?

How long could he live his life knowing nothing mattered?

_Tuesday, September 27 th, version #101_

“It’s personal,” Benji confirmed, leaving the door behind him open. Lane could watch them all he liked, it didn’t matter—he was quite thoroughly broken. “I thought it was, but it’s nice to be sure. Now we know, he did choose this location just to hurt you, Ethan.”

Benji’s team watched him with horror and fascination. Ilsa and Luther favored the latter, but Ethan was stuck in the former.

“What did you do to him?” Ethan asked, and no matter how many times Benji had had to endure that particular tone—betrayal, fear, anguish—it never got easier to bear. Well. Maybe that wasn’t true.

“I didn’t do anything to him,” Benji held up his hands, “we just had a little talk. Guess he didn’t like what I had to say.”

Benji couldn’t bear to look at Ethan. He looked at Ilsa instead. Her gaze was appraising, curious. Tinted with distrust.

It should be, Benji reflected, after all, she’s the one who taught me how to do what I just did. And now, he’d learned all he needed to know—more than the location, he knew Lane’s plans.

He knew Lane’s plans didn’t have a damn thing to do with time-loops.

_Tuesday, September 27 th, version #134_

Benji let the bomb go off. He rattled off the excuse he’d honed so finely in past months, left his friends to drive off in the van, and just…walked. At this distance he actually got a glimpse of the explosion—the light, the dust, the rattle of windows and the incredible sound—before the shockwave wiped him out of existence.

Temporarily.

_Tuesday, September 27 th, version #141_

Benji didn’t ever let the bomb go off again. Though he’d briefly gotten the emotional spike he was seeking, it was unimaginably worse than the numbness drilled into his veins.

He thought he must be closing in on half a year lived in this non-time. He’d lost track of the number a good while ago. It’s not like he could keep a tally.

_Tuesday, September 27 th, version #152_

After his morning ritual of bomb-defusal, he pulled Ethan aside for the next part of his daily schedule: cutting through the noise and getting Ethan to believe the whole time-loop situation.

Every day since he’d found out, Benji thought about saying _the other thing_ about _the feelings_ , but he stuck with the classic.

“Ethan Hunt, the Great and Terrible Gorilla Butcher of the Concrete Basement.”

Ethan blanched, and that was not something Ethan Hunt often did—well, something he often did outside of time loops anyway. Benji had seen it enough to find it almost passé.

“C’mon, let’s go get lunch,” Benji grabbed a shocked Ethan’s arm and towed him off to the retro diner joint he’d grown fond of during his stay in purgatory.

“Her name’s Jill, she’ll seat us by the far window, you’ll take the left seat because it’s the one that allows you to keep an eye on all the exits. Oh, and I know you’re fond of fish, but the special is _off_ today.”

“What?” Ethan almost tripped. Maybe it was the rickety metal stairs leading up to the restaurant’s door or maybe it was just Benji’s words that nearly sent him sprawling.

“Hi, my name’s Jill,” the perky waitress greeted them as they stepped through the door, “party of two?”

“Yes,” Benji nodded, “And we’d prefer a table,” he answered her question before she asked it.

Jill nodded and steered them away from the booths and towards the window. Ethan sat in the left chair, though his eye was more on Benji than any exits.

“I’ll have a cheese and tomato sandwich, grilled, with mustard on the side. And a strawberry shake,” Benji ordered without opening the menu she handed him.

“Alright, great choices. And for you, sir? Can I interest you in our special today—it’s our legendary fish fry up!”

“That’s…um, no I’ll just have a burger.” Ethan still hadn’t taken his eyes off of Benji. Benji had grown used to the mistrust cycles ago. He just sent a bland smile up at Jill as she tapped her pen on her notepad and bounced off to start their orders.

“Waterworks at three o’clock in five, four, three, two…” Benji counted down, and just as he reached zero a child in a booster seat across the way started sobbing at the top of his tiny lungs.

“How did you—” Ethan started.

“Excuse me, Alice?” Benji leaned over the aisle to speak to the elderly woman lunching parallel to them, “Could I borrow a pen?”

“Pardon me?” the lady—Alice, apparently—repeated, “Do I know you?”

“Sure, we met at the Alums dinner last weekend. Name’s Benji, I nearly spilled a very nice red on your even nicer blue silk dress.”

“Oh…” Alice blinked slowly, “yes, now I think I remember…how nice to see you again!” She rummaged in her purse and handed Benji a ballpoint.

“Thanks ever so much,” Benji said graciously, pulling a paper napkin closer and scribbling a few lines on it. He folded the napkin and handed it to Ethan, returning the pen to Alice with a wink.

A very stressed middle-aged woman tapped Ethan on the shoulder. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but my son managed to send his little toy fire engine racing all the way over here and under your seat…”

“Oh,” Ethan stood, masterfully hiding the tremble in his hands—except from Benji, who saw all. “It’s no problem,” he retrieved the little red truck and handed it to the mother, who chased a hand across her sweaty brow.

“Thank you,” she almost curtseyed, it was incredibly sweet, “you know how kids are, it would be the end of the world if this went missing.”

“Well, glad I could help save the world, then,” Ethan smiled at her and she lit up, the way most people did in the face of that megawatt grin.

“Thanks again,” she murmured before scurrying away with a blush.

Ethan turned back to Benji, who gestured to the napkin. Ethan unfolded it and stared at the exact transcript of the conversation he’d just had with the mother—not a single word was missing.

Jill deposited their food on the table and Ethan jumped. “Enjoy!” she said, chipper as can be, “And let me know if there’s anything else I can bring you.”

“We’re good,” Benji replied, smoothly, “and Jill, a small piece of advice…don’t switch majors. Your parents may think Philosophy isn’t practical, but they don’t really know what they’re talking about. A four year degree like this is about developing critical thinking, not getting specific on-the-job skills—and you’d hate it in the business school.”

“I would!” Jill agreed, “I’d just _die_!” She put her hands on her hips and looked at Benji with wonder. “Gee, are you a psychic or something?”

“Or something,” Benji agreed. “And if you wanna be a pal to Marci, you could get that ketchup to table 6—she keeps forgetting.”

Jill turned to see a rather irate mustachioed man on the verge of standing out of his chair to shout at a nearby oblivious waitress.

“Oops!” Jill took off to defuse the situation.

Benji turned back to Ethan, who’d gone pale under his hard-won tan. “How did you know all that?” he asked, veneer of calm tight to the breaking point around his other bubbling emotions. “The conversation, and our waitress, and these strangers and…and about the gorilla.”

“I know because I’ve lived this day more than a hundred times. I can’t exactly keep track, since nothing comes through the time loop with me but my memories. And as far as I know, I’m the only one who remembers.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Tell me about it,” Benji agreed, digging into his sandwich.

“But…” Ethan trailed off, and Benji left him to work through it on his own. All the ‘but that’s science fiction!’ and ‘but how else could you explain it’ and ‘could he have pulled this off with extensive surveillance and planted actors?’ and ‘no, there are so many variables, and really, how the hell could he have known about the freakin’ _gorilla_.’

“Alright.” Ethan laid his hands flat on the table. “Let’s say I believe you.”

“You do, mostly.”

“Fine. So, how can I help?”

“You can’t. At least, I don’t see how. We’ve tried a few shenanigans—contacted scientists working for the IMF, who just laughed at us, interrogated Lane, who knew many interesting things but has no clue about what’s happening to me. I tried just making a run for it once, but the local airport’s still shut down from the whole almost-nuked thing and driving eight hours from the middle of Wisconsin just gets you into a field slightly outside of Wisconsin. Trust me, we’ve brainstormed possibilities over burgers, pad thai, curry, jerked chicken, barbecue, ravioli—you name it, we ate it while pondering the complexities of time travel.”

Ethan absorbed that, taking a hesitant bite of his burger to steal a few more seconds of thought.

“So, if you don’t think I can help you—”

“I told you because I want to spend time with you,” Benji answered the question Ethan hadn’t asked yet, and had asked several times now. “I don’t want to talk about bombs or death or practicalities. I want to talk about…you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, humor me. You always do. We’ve covered a lot of your childhood, you’ve told me all about your family’s farm, I’ve been able to get a few stories about early Missions back when Super-Agent Ethan Hunt was just a snarky new recruit chewing gum and desperately trying to look cool…”

Ethan laughed, embarrassment filtering into the nervousness. Well, that was a little better. “Right. OK. So, did I tell you about the incident in Calgary with the phony Cardinal?”

“Oh yes, makes me look twice at anyone red, I’ll tell you that.”

“Hmm, let’s see…” Ethan twirled his knife absentmindedly, “Oh. Well, if I’m telling you _everything_ …then do you know about the runaway donkey in Kent?”

“Donkey!” Benji sat up straight, “no, that’s new!”

“Well, strap in for this one,” Ethan took another bite of his burger but didn’t stop talking, because whatever manners his mother had taught him didn’t always stick around, “because it’s a doozy.”

_Tuesday, September 27 th, version #192_

They dined in the finest brunch-for-dinner establishment that Madison had to offer. It was quite fine, as far as Ethan and Benji were concerned, because it had Coconut Cream Pie French Toast, and wasn’t that the most genius invention since Velcro.

Benji had tried more classical romantic locations—Italian, four stars, etc.—but it only put Ethan on edge. As they said, you could take the boy out of the farm… Benji liked it better this way too. Ethan, with his battered armor lowered.

Lodging at the bed and breakfast was a hard sell, but as soon as Benji saw it he knew it was right. He could tell Ethan wanted the peace and quiet too, his weak protests that they could stay at the chain hotel in town easily settled.

“How did you even find this place?” Ethan asked as they pulled up outside. “It looks so off the grid, it probably doesn’t even have a website.”

“It doesn’t,” Benji confirmed, “The proprietors find their landline technically demanding. It’s just luck I spotted it.”

“Spotted it? What, from a helicopter?” Ethan laughed.

“Hot air balloon, actually,” Benji replied, “they give rides a few miles from here.”

“Right,” Ethan shook his head, “of course. You’re really full of surprises today, Benji.”

“I’m full of something, that’s for sure. C’mon, let’s go up.”

Benji had called ahead, naturally. Midge from housekeeping was a real dream and had set every detail just as Benji asked. Each detail, meticulously researched, detected, attempted, perfected.

The fire was a comforting crackle in the hearth, champagne chilled in frosty contrast next to a well-worn loveseat.

“Check the window ledge,” Benji urged, smiling. This was something new. Inspired by one of their last run-throughs, where he’d finally broke and watched That Movie with Ethan. Almost fortunate, that Ethan wouldn’t remember it now.

Ethan frowned in confusion but checked the window. His frown slid away, replaced by a soft, charmed smile.

Benji mentally checked a box. “Yep. Worked in the movie,” he murmured.

“Movie?” Ethan asked.

“You know…the movies,” Benji fibbed, “the rom-coms. A gesture goes a thousand miles, or whatever.”

Ethan pulled a pint of rocky road from the windowsill, the temperature at that perfect place between frozen and melted.

“Don’t worry,” Benji took the ice cream off Ethan’s hands, “that’s for me. I won’t force you to deal with the terrible reality that is nuts in ice cream.”

“I don’t understand why anyone would do that,” Ethan agreed, “they’re just horrible little chunks of ice that try and break your teeth.”

Benji grinned to himself. Ethan’s opinions didn’t get less adorable with repeated exposure. “For you, my dear, Triple Chocolate Fudge Extreme,” Benji handed Ethan the other pint from the sill.

“That’s my favorite! How did you know?”

You told me, months ago, Benji didn’t say. “Eh, I had Luther waterboarded earlier, got all the juicy stuff.”

Ethan went very still and didn’t laugh.

“Ah, too soon,” Benji nodded, finger tapping a rhythm in the air like he was taking notes on an invisible typewriter, “right. No jokes about torture.”

Ethan frowned, setting the ice cream aside. Oh hell, there went the evening.

Internally, Benji was already planning the next.

“What does that mean?” Ethan asked.

“Nothing,” Benji lied easily.

Another roiling silence.

“Where did you go?” Ethan pressed instead, and Benji blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“Just now,” Ethan crossed his arms, “It’s like you were here, but not. Like you left. Is the play over?”

“Play?” Benji was still nonplussed. It was odd.

“This whole evening, it’s been like theater. And you’ve delivered your part with excellence—but it’s like I went off-script and then you just walked off the stage.” A cousin to heartbreak cracked open in Ethan’s eyes and Benji felt like the scum of the earth—it was a dreadful feeling, but also the most intense one he’d had in a long while. Since letting the bomb go off. He had to fight not to make it worse, to feel it more.

“Did I bore you that easily,” Ethan pressed on, that horrible look still fixed on his face, “you just gave up?”

“I haven’t given up, I’m just…waiting to do it right tomorrow.” There, that was technically true.

“Do _what_ right?” Ethan sat on the nearest horizontal surface, breathing hard, “There has been something happening all day. I thought it was just…time. Because I’ve had these feelings for a while, I thought it all was coming together so perfectly because of fate, or some stupid shit like that. But it’s not fate, is it? You just planned everything. How could you plan everything?”

“Oh, hell,” Benji sank onto the loveseat beside Ethan, “I really am pulling a Murray. Christ, this whole time I’ve been trying to learn from his mistakes…”

“Who?”

“Oh, never mind. Just an actor you barely know but wouldn’t like if you watched him—you don’t approve of how he uses people.”

“You’re scaring me, Benji.”

Benji reached without looking for Ethan’s hand, praying he’d find it. He did.

“I usually do, in the end.”

_Tuesday, September 27 th, version #234_

It was simple now. Benji had done it so many times, it was a reflex, a muscle memory, like tying one’s shoes. He started at the beginning—his only real choice—and worked his way northwest across the city. First stop, of course, was the bomb. He mostly let Ethan and the team handle it now, with a few choice pieces of information he’d determined established maximum efficiency and minimal violence. There were other things needing fixing. A paper report (surely demanded by some miserly old professor who thought email was the devil’s work) slipping free of a student’s hand, destined to be blown away and ruin their grade, caught and returned to them. The tragic fall of Nutmeg the stuffed rabbit, of course—this damnable weather ruined so many things. But not while he was around.

When he needed to rest, he liked to sit in the coffee shop around the corner from where Wisconsin had almost been wiped off the map by nuclear winter. It was always crowded with undergrads desperate for caffeine at the start, but they’d all run off to classes by the time Benji settled in with his laptop, a borrowed book, some crocheting, tangram puzzles—whatever new piece of culture or thought he could get his hands on.

He still played piano, he’d nearly mastered Mandarin and was making good progress on American Sign Language, he could embroider the hell out of a tea towel.

He knew the color of every cracked tile on the floor of the library, he could draw the shape of the clouds overhead without looking up. He had pieces of so many people’s stories, scavenged from endless conversations—it was easy to spark them up now, anxiety long forgotten now that consequences were a thing of the past.

He needed all those pieces, to stay sane. His friends weren’t enough, even though he loved them so dearly. And he knew now, that as close as he could get, they could never move towards him. Stuck in time. But the damage he could do…

He didn’t know if this day would go on for a genuine eternity, but if it didn’t, that meant that any day could be the real one, the one that stuck. And so, he promised himself that he’d make sure every day from then on would be one he could live with. If he ever got to see Wednesday for himself, it would be one where he knew he’d done his best to prepare his friends and this town to live it.

_Tuesday, September 27 th, version #255_

Relativity, spacetime geometry, string theory—it would take a person years to scratch the surface. Fortunately, Benji had the time. And the people to help him as well, being lucky enough to have been temporally stranded in a university town. Not to mention the vast resources of the Internet and, to a lesser degree, the IMF.

This wasn’t like the Film That Shall Not Be Named—Benji couldn’t believe this was the universe’s way of punishing him, or demanding he put right a terrible wrong, or grow as a person. It was simply too uncaring.

This was a scientific problem, albeit one wildly out of Benji’s realm of experience, and he’d solve it with science.

He had the time.

_Tuesday, September 27 th, version #329_

“Do you really think that could work?” Benji asked, so quiet Luther had to lean forward, chair squeaking, to hear him.

“Well, most of what you’ve got here is some Grade A free-range crazy person shit,” Luther slapped the crinkled pile of scribbled-upon paper, “And I only dabble in this kind of highfalutin cosmic nonsense. But. That said…yeah. I really think it could work. If it were _real_ ,” Luther emphasized, lifting the brim of his hat to ensure that Benji got the full intensity of his disbelief.

“Right, yeah, if it were real, like, if it were a reality I was really living every real goddamn day,” Benji retorted before he could cap the pent-up rage. “Sorry,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his face, “that was…never mind. Ignore me.”

“Usually, I do,” Luther replied archly, “but right now, I feel like I’ve gotta keep an eye on you. For my sake and yours.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Benji agreed. He leapt to his feet and swept his plans—cramped handwriting scrawled on the back of the blueprints he woke up next to every day—into his arms before turning to walk away. He ignored the creak of Luther trying to follow him. All he had to do was duck into the hall closet and Luther wouldn’t know where he’d gone. Or, he could let Luther follow and just tase him if he got in the way. Benji didn’t like doing that, but he’d done it before.

It still scared him, how easy it was to hurt people when you possessed absolute knowledge. He wanted this to be over before it stopped scaring him.

_Tuesday, September 27 th, version #331_

“I think it might be over soon,” Benji dared to tell Ethan.

Ethan looked up at him, worry rising in the relief that still colored his gorgeous eyes after the success of their mission that morning. “What do you mean?” he asked, and Benji knew—not just guessed at, but knew—all the worried potentials Ethan was dreaming up.

“Nothing bad, or rather, ‘it being over’ is a good thing. It’s a finally-able-to-move-on thing.”

“…You realize that clears up exactly nothing.”

“Yeah.” Benji dared to press a kiss to Ethan’s cheek. It was all he allowed himself now, after how far his manipulations had gone in the past.

“What was that for?” Ethan flushed slightly—such an innocent thing on such a weathered face. Benji could never tire of it.

He brushed a thumb across Ethan’s cheekbone, thinking that forever wouldn’t be so bad if he could have this—but really, the fact that he could never truly have this was why this forever was so terrible.

“Just for luck,” Benji explained, “we both need it.”

_Tuesday, September 27 th, #358, the Penultimate_

He’d practiced it so many times. _So_ many times. But, as he continually told himself, a mantra chanted under his breath and sometimes out loud because who cared if he looked crazy—he literally had all the time in the world. Time to do it right.

So, he fixed it. All of it. Not just the big stuff, all the little things too. So many days with these people, so many days walking these streets, he couldn’t bear to leave one portrait hanging crooked, one set of keys lost, one unnecessary tear shed.

He hopped off the curb, avoiding a splash of rainwater splattering from the wheels of the passing bright red Range Rover (thanks a lot, Professor Harrison), and reached out a hand just in time to catch Nutmeg before she landed in the mud. Nutmeg, a well-worn gingery-brown stuffed rabbit, belonged to little Miss Rashida Barnes. Rashida hadn’t meant to loosen her grip on the beloved toy, but she was very small and the wind was very strong.

“Whoops! Looks like this bun was trying to make a break for it.” Benji handed Nutmeg back to Rashida with a smile.

“Thanks!” the child squeaked, clutching Nutmeg close. Her father gave Benji a relieved kind of nod as Benji peeled away from their path down the sidewalk. He returned the nod before heading down the nearest alley. He had a lot more work to do.

**_No longer_ ** _Tuesday, September 27 th._

Benji did not wake up in the van. He woke up on a bed. A blessedly soft, warm bed.

That was different. Different was good. Different was _perfect_.

He bolted upright, scanning his surroundings, and found the insides of a moderately priced hotel—he recognized it as the one on the west side of town, set between the cool, hip part of the city and the encroaching suburbs.

There was a knock followed by the door opening a crack.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Ethan strolled in, shutting the door behind him.

Benji gaped. Ethan seemed utterly calm. Now, that was his usual state, but Benji thought he might have forgone it what with the enormity of the endeavor they’d undertaken.

“What day is it?” Benji whispered, voice cracking.

“What? Have you been asleep that long?” Ethan laughed, going to the window and throwing the curtains open.

Benji struggled to free himself from the comforter, finally leaping out of bed to see he was still wearing his clothes from yesterday.

“Please,” he went to Ethan and took him by both arms, meeting his eye, “tell me, what day is it?”

“It’s Wednesday,” Ethan said, in the tone of a patient primary school teacher, “Pretty late on Wednesday, since you took your beauty sleep so seriously,” Ethan grinned, “But I’ll say you earned it.”

“Uh…yeah?” Benji couldn’t believe it had really happened—seriously, he couldn’t believe it. “Ethan, listen…what happened yesterday?”

Ethan tapped his chin in a parody of thoughtfulness, “Well, let’s see. The headliner was stopping Lane from nuking the upper Midwest.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And…?” Ethan laughed, “not sure what else is important. We loaded the bastard up, took care of the nuclear device, went on our way. I think I remember something else, something you said…or did?...with the bomb…” he waved a hand. “Eh, it’s fuzzy. Probably the adrenaline. Anyway.”

“Probably for the best,” Benji murmured to himself. It really was—no reason for Ethan to have to remember any of the time-loop explanation nonsense. God, was it really behind him? Was it really…Wednesday?

Benji flew to the window, looking out at the clear blue sky. Tears welled in his eyes. There wasn’t a cloud in sight.

“Are you alright?” Ethan asked, laying a tentative hand on Benji’s shoulder.

“Can I get back to you on that?” Benji joked, tossing a fragile smile to Ethan.

“Of course.” Ethan stayed right where he was. Where it felt like he’d always be.

Except, he might not always be there, not now, not if time was really moving forward rather than chasing its own tail.

Benji could do something about that.

He turned around, pulled Ethan in by the shirtfront, and kissed him right up against the hotel’s beige wallpaper.

Ethan barely even seemed surprised, diving into the kiss without hesitation.

Benji never wanted it to end, but he had to pull away to laugh, “I…I have no idea what you’re going to do next!” Wasn’t that wonderful, having no idea what the future held?

Ethan, propped up against the wall, dazed, murmured, “Well…I’m kind of hoping it involves kissing you again.”

Benji grinned into another kiss, and then another. “I’m no clairvoyant, but I can promise that more of this is in our future.”

**Author's Note:**

> Whew! I knew when I tried to start writing this, like, a day and a half before Benthan Week Day 4, that it would get out of hand. And it did, by several thousand words! But it was fun 😊 Also, fun fact, I originally wrote this fic entirely backwards, i.e. I ordered it starting from Day #358 and then going all the way back to Day #1. I think if I had had more time/energy, it would still be cool to tell the story from that perspective—it really shifts some of the story-telling devices endemic to the time-loop genre. As you can see, I did preserve a remnant of that, which was keeping the last looped day as the start of the fic!  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this—I’d love to hear from you if you have a mo’! <3
> 
> Also: here’s the song Benji played for Luther, [Moanin’ by Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cv9NSR-2DwM) (thanks to my dad for being a huge jazz nerd and helping me figure out what kind of jazz Luther might be a fan of!)


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